


a pencil full of memories (sketches of a cemetery)

by princessoftheworlds



Series: The Many Lives and Lies of Jack Harkness [6]
Category: Doctor Who (2005), Torchwood
Genre: Angst and Feels, Art, Artist Jack Harkness, Canon Compliant, Jack-Centric, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:55:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,706
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28416459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/princessoftheworlds/pseuds/princessoftheworlds
Summary: One day, not too soon after he recalls Tosh’s name, he sits at a desk in any of the numerous interchangeable residences he will inhabit throughout his life and begins to sketch. The memories come first, their voices echoing in his ears as he traces the curve of their smiles and the crinkle of their eyes, legs in motion or head thrown back in laughter.The ones he loved -still loves- are brought back to life, eternalized in his memory, just as immortal as he is.Jack Harkness remembers the ones he loved and immortalizes them through his art.
Relationships: Estelle Cole/Jack Harkness, Jack Harkness/Ianto Jones, Jack Harkness/John Hart, Martha Jones/Mickey Smith, Ninth Doctor/Jack Harkness/Rose Tyler
Series: The Many Lives and Lies of Jack Harkness [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1779442
Comments: 18
Kudos: 30





	a pencil full of memories (sketches of a cemetery)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [myre](https://archiveofourown.org/users/myre/gifts).



> Happy holidays! You had some excellent prompts, all of which I loooooved, from which I chose Prompt 5, featuring Artist!Jack. I reworked the prompt a bit and arrived at this fic, which I'm actually quite pleased with. I hope you enjoy it!
> 
> Beta'd by Vi and Annika, title by CJ. It really takes a village to write and post a fic.

Thousands of years into the future, millions even, in fact, there is an immortal, a man named Jack Harkness, and he walks amongst the stars, essentially alone. With him, he carries the ghosts of hundreds loved, hundreds more forgotten.

Jack’s memory is a fading thing; his mind is a human thing, not made to contain thousands of lifetimes. He’s forgotten so many of the ordinary people he meets every day, yet there are those who are emblazoned on his heart, whose presence he cannot forget even if his mouth forgets how to form the shape of their name.

He strives his hardest not to forget them, these incredible people that he’s loved even if the why is starting to slip away. The first time he closes his eyes and realizes he’s forgotten the name of the dark-eyed, clever woman he rescued from a dark, cold prison cell, he weeps. Her name scratches his brain like a phantom itch as he tries valiantly to ignore the heaviness in his heart and chest. Days later, her name pops into his mind as he ducks explosive attacks from an enemy force, and he stiffens.

_Toshiko._ _Toshiko Sato._ That had been her name. He can’t believe he’d forgotten her, his brilliant Tosh.

And that’s when Jack realizes he’s forgetting. Forgetting them. The ones he would have died for a thousand times over. The ones he vowed to remember forever. 

Photographs are no good. Ones he’d kept for over a hundred years burned to dust in an explosion, and even if more were taken, they would tatter and fade, just like his memory. And technology was always so ever-changing. 

Before Javic, like any other Boeshane child, had learned how to fish or swim or pick fruits from the trees that lined the beaches, his mother taught him to draw with the archaic wooden pencils she adored, to sketch the vivid images that populated his mind, to coax them to life with each gentle stroke or intentional scratch against rough paper. Here was the slope of a nose, there the spiky waves of the stormy ocean battering the beach. 

Artistry practically runs in Javic’s blood. His mother came from a long line of talented artists and artisans, and she passed her skill onto her elder son during early mornings and long nights bent over their wooden table, toddler Gray running amok through the house as Javic attempted to shade in a feathery bird.

It’s a skill Jack’s never forgotten, never left behind, unlike his name. In a time and place as primitive as twentieth century Cardiff, he sketched his home and the universe on spare scraps of paper he would always burn, associating the smell of smoke with the graphite staining his mother’s fingers.

One day, not too soon after he recalls Tosh’s name, he sits at a desk in any of the numerous interchangeable residences he will inhabit throughout his life and begins to sketch. The memories come first, their voices echoing in his ears as he traces the curve of their smiles and the crinkle of their eyes, legs in motion or head thrown back in laughter.

The ones he loved -  _ still loves _ \- are brought back to life, eternalized in his memory, just as immortal as he is.

From that day on, Jack Harkness fills up countless sketchbooks with his drawings, pages stained and tattered and scrawled over. In every sketchbook, there are five scenes that he draws again and again in no particular order, scenes that are etched into his memory.

This current sketchbook is simple, brown, thin, leather-bound. Once the hard cover is flipped open, the first page depicts a happy scene - two parents splashing in the tide, clutching a giggling baby boy who thrashes his tiny limbs in the water, shrieking when water droplets splatter over his beaming parents. The mother is gorgeous, all Phthalo blue eyes the color of the ocean and joy that spirals from the page, her long hair plastered against her back. The father is tan and strong-jawed, lips stretched in a wide smile to reveal brilliant white teeth, cradling his son lovingly.

_ “Javic, come join us,” Franklin shouts from where he stands in the tide, the water gently lapping at his knees. His words drift over the sand to his elder son - a bright-eyed boy with his coloring and facial structure but his mother’s smile - as he stands on the sandy curve that overlooks the beach. “Quit brooding. Come play with Gray.” He bounces said baby slightly in his arms, his younger son continuing to giggle infectiously. _

_ Javic, the little drama queen, scowls at his father but only briefly. He can’t become upset at Gray, the baby brother he adores, or his parents, no matter if they’d ruined his plans to sneak away to town with his friends. “I’m not brooding, Dad!” _

_ “Awww, look at his little pout,” his mother teases, reaching over to nudge her husband. “He looks so much more and more like you every day, Franklin.” Then she reaches out to smooth a gentle hand along Gray’s damp hair before turning amused eyes back towards her other son. “Spend time with your old parents, Javic. You’ll outgrow us before long, will start thinking that you’re too cool to hang out with us.” _

_ “Mom,” complains Javic as he draws near, treading carefully into the water, “you’re being too ovedramatic again. I’m not going anywhere soon. Nor are you or Dad or Gray.” He smiles fondly when he draws closer to where his father holds Gray. “I won’t let you.” _

_ “How noble of you, Javic Piotr Thane,” his father tells him playfully, matching Javic’s grin. “That’s exactly what a brave Boeshane boy sounds like.” He ruffles his son’s hair, Javic ducking away desperately. _

_ “Dad, stop,” he whines. _

_ “He’s already taken on your ego, Franklin,” his mother teases. “Along with your handsome smile.” Franklin’s grin widens. “That’s what wooed me after when I was younger.” _

_ “Oh, stop it,” drawls Franklin, leaning forward to steal a kiss from his wife, Gray glancing between both parents confusedly. Javic makes a gagging sound and glances away.  _

_ “No one needs to see that,” he says. “Gross.” _

_ A moment later, Franklin leans back and flicks Javic’s ear. “There’s no need to find this gross. It’s just me and your mother showing affection. Perfectly natural.” He laughs when Javic grimaces. “You’ll be doing it soon too with your girlfriends or boyfriends.” _

_ Javic rolls his eyes, causing his parents to chuckle lightly. “Yeah, I know that, but it’s still weird to see your  _ parents  _ doing that.” _

_ Franklin’s response is just to shake his head and splash water upwards at Javic’s face. Strands of Javic’s hair adhere wetly to his head as he gapes at his father. His mother clicks her tongue, Gray clapping enthusiastically and waving.  _

_ “Dad,” Javic whines again. “That was so childish.”  _

_ Still, he splashes his father back, mindful of accidentally targeting Gray. And thus begins the splash fight. Franklin targets his wife, who spits water out of her mouth before fixing him with a stern glance. _

_ “Oh, you’re gonna pay for that,” she tells him, giggling. She kicks water up at him, and soon, they’re all splashing at each other, careful of Gray who keeps giggling and smiling and cooing. The Thanes are completely drenched, but everyone is smiling and happy, and Javic is surrounded by people he loves and who love him. Everything is perfect. _

The second page, the second scene, is much more chaotic. A man, tall and broody with steely blue eyes, close-shorn dark hair, and lumpy ears, is mid-stride, his leather coat flapping out behind him. His hand is clenched tightly by a pretty girl, her blond hair woven into two braids that stream behind her as she darts behind the man, both smiling like two happy idiots. 

What is not captured is the mob of alien villagers chasing behind them with pitchforks and lit torches.

_ “This doesn’t seem historically accurate,” notes Rose in bewilderment, panting heavily, her hand sweaty in the Doctor’s, as they sprint away from the angry, shouting mob. “Why would alien villagers have pitchforks and torches?” _

_ “That’s really your concern?” shouts a disbelieving Jack, briefly glancing back from where he’s running several meters in front of Rose and the Doctor. “Not the bloodthirsty mob aiming to chase us down and burn us alive?” He shakes his head. “You’ve got to get your priorities in check.” _

_ “Keep running,” the Doctor shouts breathlessly. “The TARDIS is just ahead. We just have to, argh, make it past that hill!” He points up upwards to the inclined swell of the meadow. _

_ Jack groans loudly. “Of course there’s a hill. As if we weren’t exhausted and desperate enough. Now there’s a hill to climb.” He glares at Rose. “You just  _ had to  _ insult the princess of Flor’va.” _

_ “I thought she was a scarf!” Rose protests, expression pouty and helpless. “She looked so soft, and I just thought that my mum would like her as a gift.” _

_ The Doctor snorts. “Perfect. An alien princess as a Christmas present for Jackie Tyler. You should be glad that you didn’t tell the Flor’van guards that. Otherwise, they would have brought projectile weapons.” A beat. “How many times have I told you not to approach royalty without their permission?” But his tone is more soft and fond than cruel or chastising as he smiles at Rose, and she beams back up at him, her smile brighter than the sun. _

_ Huffing and puffing, the trio stumble up the hill with aching legs and burning lungs. The Doctor keeps shouting encouragement, and Jack keeps making snarky remarks, but they all heave a sigh of relief when the bright blue of the TARDIS appears in view. _

_ But the alien villagers roar as they too crest the hill and spot the TARDIS, only becoming angrier and shouting distant commands. _

_ “Hurry up!” Jack cries, peering worriedly over his shoulder at the Doctor and Rose, who are still on his tail. He darts forward the final stretch and nearly collides with the TARDIS, tracing a fond hand against the painted wood before hastily reaching for the key he wears around his neck. He fumbles with the TARDIS lock before the key sinks in easily, and he has the doors unlocked in seconds, shoving them open as he stumbles through. To his late companions: “C’mon! Hurry up! They’re getting closer.” _

_ The Doctor races across the TARDIS threshold, not stopping until he nearly dives for the console, swinging Rose inside behind him. Jack, panting and watching with rapt eyes, forces the TARDIS doors shut, turning the lock just before the angry hammering against the wood begins. _

_ Safe inside the TARDIS, they all lock eyes, frozen stiff with adrenaline and relief for a moment. Rose is the first to break, her body shaking with quiet giggles before Jack joins in with his booming laughter. Even the Doctor is guffawing, the three of them overwhelmed but alive and just a switch away from returning to the Time Vortex. _

_ Jack’s heart is thumping wildly in his chest, the roar of the villagers outside muffled by the blood rushing in his ears. Yet, as he glances around the TARDIS, eyes softening as they trace over the Doctor and Rose, he thinks he’s never been happier. _

The third drawing is more a messy scribble than a sketch, the lines harsh from both fondness and frustration, depicting a man with severe cheekbones and a biting smile as he lounges nude in a lavish bed, pillows scattered about. A draping sheet is barely pulled over his lap, exposing muscled legs and a wiry chest littered with scratches and bites that fit the indent of human teeth. The man’s blue eyes are lit with a wild light; he wouldn’t be out of place at the altar of Dionysus, being served by maenads or stroking the soft head of a leopard.

_ “Oh, love, don’t spend too loud pouting at yourself in the mirror,” the man who will call himself John Hart drawls as Javic presses gingerly at a bruise on his cheek, prodding the skin carefully. “I’ve got a better place you could put that mouth.” And as if to demonstrate a suitable location, he spreads his legs lewdly.  _

_ Javic barely spares him a glance as he continues tracing the bruise against his skin. It matches the thin scar running across his nose and his vivid black eye. He sighs, shoulders slumping as he leans back.  _

_ Maybe the next loop will be much less violent. That is, if his partner stops trying to lure the captain’s wife into his bed. Javic is tired of getting punched in the face; it’s happened in three of the last five loops. _

_ Sighing again, Javic turns back to his partner, who watches him with rapt eyes. He’s gotten lazy, loose fingers wrapped around the fine stem of a wine glass as he sips delicate, bubbly champagne.  _

_ “Come join me in bed,” he orders, and Javic shrugs. He sees no reason why not to. It’s almost two hours to midnight, two hours until the loop resets again and he wakes up slumped in the bathtub after a wild night of partying. He may as well get in another orgasm beforehand. _

_ “Budge over,” Javic tells his partner, clambering onto the bed before he settles comfortably on his partner’s bent knees, legs sprawling on either side. “Pass me the champagne.” He takes a long sip of the alcohol, wrapping his lips around the neck of the bottle and relishing the sharp but sweet fizziness as the champagne dances across his tongue. He pulls the bottle away, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. “Where did you even get the bottle?” _

_ His partner rolls his eyes. “Don’t ask. Let’s just say that I won’t be spending the next loop on my knees for an alien diplomat. I’ve found his stash.” _

_ “Don’t kill the diplomat,” Javic advises nonchalantly. “We don’t want another bloodbath.” _

_ “Why?” teases his partner. “You had so much fun in the last one.” He reaches for Javic, stroking the firm muscles of his stomach, pressing the bits of softness and flab, until he settles two solid hands at Javic’s hips, tugging the other man on top of him. _

_ Javic barely has enough insight to set the nearly-empty bottle of champagne aside before he finds himself pinned beneath his partner. He scowls playfully. _

_ “That wasn’t fun,” he says. “That was concern. For you, you idiot. I didn’t want to spend another loop patching you up again.” _

_ The other man’s eyes narrow with an indecipherable expression, but then he stretches up and snogs Javic until all the breath has gone from Javic’s lungs. Javic winds a cruel hand into his partner’s hair, tugging roughly until the other man hisses. Hands snake into more sensitive places, and grips tighten, kisses becoming more biting, until there’s a loud, passionate moan. _

_ Javic wouldn’t necessarily say that he’s happy, not that anyone can be while stuck in a time loop, but he’s certainly content, and this is one of his better memories. And while the man who will call himself John Hart is a tricky presence in Javic Thane’s life, Javic cares for him all the same. _

The fourth page, the fourth sketch, holds none of the chaos or ferocity of the third. It features a gorgeous young woman with dark hair falling in fashionable waves and clever black eyes, posed mid-swirl, the skirt of her maroon velvet evening dress flaring out as she’s swung out by an invisible partner to music that cannot be heard. Her head is tossed back, her painted lips parted in laughter.

_ “Oh, Captain,” Estelle tells him breathlessly, cheeks flushed from the fast-paced dancing and her constant giggling as Jack made not-so-proper remarks about neighboring couples. “I didn’t know that you could dance so well.” _

_ Jack grins devilishly, preening just a bit. “Oh, Ms. Cole,” he replies, taking her gloved hand to press a delicate kiss to her palm. “Dancing is one of my top three talents, along with being charming and being so handsome.” _

_ Her giggles only increase in frequency, the sound sweet and musical to Jack’s ears. Around them, couples cling to each other, hands wrapped around waists or resting on shoulders, as they sway in time to the quiet jazz of the band. The night is wrapping up. Soon, tears will be shed, and impassioned love confessions exchanged, all spurred on by the lurking darkness of the approaching war.  _

_ These soldiers, including Jack and his men, ship out tomorrow, after all. Most of these men will die. Jack will be the exception, he thinks with bitterness he attempts to banish as he traces his eyes along the curves of Estelle’s smiling face. _

_ But he’s happy now. Why think of the future when he could just focus on “now?” _

_ “Could I perhaps buy you another drink, my darling?” he asks in a rather posh accent to match Estelle’s, and she reaches out to flick him on the nose, gaze darting around to ensure that no one saw her. _

_ “I think not, good sir,” she replies, bouncing slightly in his arms, eyes twinkling merrily. “I would rather that you accompany me outside for a walk along the pier.” _

_ The nighttime air is cool and brisk, making them shiver despite their thick coats. Jack pulls the collar of his greatcoat higher to protect his neck, grateful to have it back this time around. Estelle leans closer into his side as they stride across the water-slick wood, lit by the tall street lamps lining the pier. _

_ “I always thought that the ocean was particularly beautiful at night,” she confesses to him in a hushed voice as they stop before a bench. “With the way the lights shine and are reflected back on its surface.” _

_ Jack thinks back to the way the Boeshane waters mirrored the triple moons in the sky, scattering light everywhere, and nods slowly. “I agree,” he says. “There might be nothing more beautiful than water at night.” He pauses. “Well, nothing more beautiful than you.” _

_ Estelle huffs a soft laugh. “You flatter me, Jack.” She gazes up at him with content eyes. _

_ Tomorrow, Jack ships off to death. Were he any other man, he would have a sparkling ring in his pocket. He would be on one knee before her right now.  _

_ But she deserves better. He can’t give her the happiness and love that she deserves, even if he does love her in a way he never thought he could again. Not after his wife at least. _

_ Still, he’s happy right now. There’s no denying that. The Doctor could come for him at any time, and Jack’s going off to die tomorrow for a war, for a planet, that isn’t even really his. But he’s happy. _

_ He reaches to cup a hand around Estelle’s cheek before leaning down to kiss her softly, memorizing the planes of her face, relishing one last good memory as he can. _

_ He’s happy. _

Next, typically the fifth page, the fifth sketch, is a young Black woman in her mid- to late thirties posed in a doorway, her intelligent dark eyes shiny with tears. Next to her stands a muscular Black man with close-shorn hair and scruff creeping up his jawline. His mouth is dropped open in surprise, his hand clutched tightly by the woman. From behind both their legs, a small face peeks out, a little boy, roughly three or four, with the woman’s eyes and the man’s facial structure.

_ The doorbell rings once more, echoing sharply through the house, and Martha hurries down the hall in her haste to pull the door open. The first time it rang, she was in the kitchen, balancing the bad combination of a hot pan and a hungry toddler, and she doesn’t want it to ring a third time. _

_ “Coming, I’m coming,” she calls, as if she can freeze the unexpected visitor in place. “Don’t you take even a step away.”The lock slides free with a rattle and a clank as Martha pulls the door open, and then her mouth drops open, her eyes immediately filling with tears. “Jack?” _

_ Jack Harkness, clad in the familiar greatcoat and smiling bashfully, is standing on her doorstep like no years have passed. _

_ “Hello, nightingale,” he says with a dip of his head, his smile widening as his eyes trail over her hungrily, happily. “It’s been a while.” _

_ She nearly slaps him. _

_ Instead, her tears only come faster, and she brings a hand up to muffle her sobs. Finally, when she’s brought her breathing back under control and her sobs have subsided slightly, she places a steadying hand on the doorframe and pulls in a ragged inhale. “It’s been five years,” she says. “Five years with very few words, Jack.” _

_ “I know,” he replies, and he can’t meet her eyes. “I’m sorry, Martha.” _

_ “Not even Gwen heard from you,” she rages, but not even the ferocity of her words can mask her relief. “You just left, after the whole Miracle Day fiasco.” _

_ “Again, I’m sorry, Martha,” Jack says, and when he glances up, his eyes are shiny with tears as well. “But I’m here now.” _

_ Before Martha can reply, another voice echoes down the hallway: “Martha? Babe, who is it? You’ve been at the door an awfully long time.” A beat. “Captain Cheesecake?” _

_ “Mickey Mouse,” booms Jack, beaming at this new familiar face despite his tears. “I missed you.” _

_ “I missed you too,” Mickey replies slowly, still processing his shock. “What the bloody hell are you doing on our doorstep? Where have you been for the last five years?” _

_ Jack shrugs. “Around.” _

_ “Where’s August?” Martha murmurs to Mickey. _

_ “Seated briefly in front of the telly,” Mickey tells her quietly. They both lift their heads to notice Jack’s curious gaze.  _

_ “Why don’t you come in, Jack?” asks Martha. _

_ Ten minutes later, Jack finds himself seated on a plush couch in the Jones-Smith living room, a mug of tea cradled in his hands. A small boy, looking an exact mini-replica of Mickey, is crashing large cars together near Jack’s foot. Jack smiles down at the boy, still bewildered that two of his friends have a child. _

_ He felt the same way with Anwen. _

_ “Here you go,” Martha says, sinking into the couch next to him. She hands him a bowl of steaming soup, taking the cup of half-drunk tea and placing it on a side table.  _

_ “Eat,” Mickey says sternly from where he sits on an armchair across the room, giving Jack a pointed look. _

_ Shaking his head, Jack chuckles and lifts the spoon to his mouth. After half the bowl is drained, he nods toward the boy. “His name is August?” _

_ “Yes,” Martha says fondly. “August Jones-Smith.” _

_ “August Jones-Smith,” Jack repeats. “He’s adorable. Looks just like you, Martha. Clearly he got the good genes.” _

_ Mickey rolls his eyes. “Oh, I missed you, Harkness.” _

_ “I missed you too,” Jack says, smiling softly at Martha and Mickey. He feels content and cared for. Loved. More than either of them will ever know. _

The next page features many. Of course, they all have their own individual pages and sketches, multiple, in fact, but Jack always loved them together. They were his family.

It’s a scene of a familiar underground base littered with sparkling Christmas decorations and a rather scraggly tree, as if the one on tree duty - an irascible doctor, oddly enough - forgot until the last minute and rushed to get one of the unambitious stragglers remaining at the tree lot. Four men and women - one man elegantly suited, the other with a zipped-up leather jacket, one woman in a delicate silk dress, the other wearing a garish Christmas sweater - cluster around a ragged couch and scratched-up coffee table, each holding colorful presents labelled with their name. 

_ Gwen rips into her present with a ferocity that makes Ianto flinch at the mess being created, but they can’t deny her enthusiasm for Christmas; Jack finds it rather refreshing after years of watching the holiday pass him by with no one to celebrate it with. _

_ Inside a box neatly bound with twine Gwen finds a beautiful woven silver bracelet, and she inhales sharply, bringing the jewelry up to the flickering lights of the Hub to watch it gleam. “Oh,” she says happily. “This is gorgeous.” She turns to eye the rest of the team as she slips the bracelet on her wrist before she smiles brightly up at Tosh. “Tosh, I know no one else on the team has taste as great as yours, so thank you!” _

_ As Tosh ducks her head, blushing with a slight smile, at least before she’s bombarded by a hug from Gwen, Jack pouts. “Hey, I’ll let you know that I have great taste too!” _

_ “In sex toys, maybe,” Owen mutters, and Jack glares at him. _

_ “We’ve seen how you dress, Jack,” Tosh points out to him. “We used to think you’d borrowed your grandfather’s clothes.” _

_ “Ianto thinks I look dashing,” Jack retorts, grinning widely at his boyfriend, but Ianto rolls his eyes, his fingers tracing the attached tag on his own present.  _

_ “See,” says Gwen, nodding. “Now Ianto has great taste. It could have been him, but the bracelet feels more of Tosh’s style. Ianto would have gone a bit more practical. New boots or a leather jacket.” _

_ “Thanks for the ideas for next year,” Owen drawls. He eyes Tosh determinedly. “I think Tosh should open hers next.” _

_ Tosh, shaking her head at Owen, is much neater and precise as she peels off the tape and gently pulls the wrapping paper off a box similar to Gwen’s present. Inside, she finds two tickets to an upcoming performance by the Welsh National Opera, and she immediately barks a laugh. “Oh, Ianto, you didn’t have to.” _

_ Poor Ianto looks bewildered. “I didn’t,” he says, and Tosh glances around the team, brow furrowed.  _

_ “Well, then, who did?” Slowly, Owen raises his hand, his smile sheepish. Tosh’s eyes widen. “Owen! That’s quite… a surprise.” She manages to keep the hope off her face.  _

_ “I felt that I owed you for last year,” Owen says. “That’s why you have two tickets. One for you and another for a guest of your choice.” He inhales sharply. “I was hoping you’d let me accompany you.” When the shocked silence of the team persists: “Can’t let you and Ianto have all the fun.” _

_ It’s not a date, but it’s a promise, and despite her surprise, Tosh smiles and presses a kiss to Owen’s cheek. “Of course, Owen.” A beat. “I appreciate it very much.” _

_ Ianto clears his throat with a quiet cough. “Shall we move on?” he offers, lifting his own present.  _

_ Owen snorts. “You just wanna see what you got, mate.” Ianto doesn’t deny it. _

_ Seated between Ianto and Gwen, with Ianto nestled comfortably into his side, Jack watches the team fondly. Tosh, Owen, Ianto, Gwen, they’re all his family. They chose him as much as he chose them, and having found his family in the twenty-first century, Jack doesn’t think he’s been happier. _

Among the final few sketches is the one most painstakingly sketched and resketched, every single stroke precise and loving. A young man, likely in his mid-twenties, stands by the edge of a pond, the collar of his peacoat turned up, a plastic bag of bread in hand. He is posed mid-laugh, amused by the antics of his unseen boyfriend.

_ “Your idea of a romantic date is feeding ducks?” Ianto asks in disbelief, raising an eyebrow at a beaming Jack, tugging his coat more tightly around his shoulders to protect himself from the bitter chill of the wind.  _

_ Bouncing slightly on his heels, Jack nods. “Yup! What’s not to love?” He gestures around the empty park. “Nature and adorable animals” _

_ “Vicious, hungry, bitey creatures,” Ianto corrects. At Jack’s bewildered expression: “I had an unfortunate run-in as a child. I got too close.” Then he rolls his eyes as Jack begins to chuckle. “Did you even bring bread?” _

_ “What for?” Jack glances down to his empty, non-bread-laden hands. _

_ “To feed the ducks,” says Ianto, but his tone is more fond than exasperated. _

_ “...right.” A beat. “I’ll be right back.” Then Jack runs off, his greatcoat flapping behind him, leaving Ianto completely alone in this deserted park. _

_ Ianto eyes a lone duck in the pond cautiously. “You better not take a step onto land,” he warns.  _

_ Luckily, he’s not abandoned for more than ten minutes before Jack comes sprinting back, a bag swinging by his side. _

_ “There’s a Tesco’s not too far away,” he explains in between pants when Ianto looks puzzled. He hands the bag to his reluctant boyfriend. “The girl working there told me that you shouldn’t feed ducks bread and suggested corn instead.”  _

_ And indeed, Ianto opens the bag to find it filled with loose corn, and his eyebrows rise. “Alright then.” _

_ Together, Jack and Ianto stand before the pond’s edge, watching the ducks. They quack at each other and dip their heads underwater as they drift by, some eyeing the two men curiously. _

_ “So how do you want to actually do this?” Jack asks. “What’s our strategy? How does one feed ducks?” _

_ Ianto rolls his eyes fondly. He reaches for a handful of corn and tosses it into the water, doing his best to ensure that it lands scattered in the water. The ducks quack and swim over to the corn triumphantly, but when one drifts too close to the edge of the pond, Ianto takes a sudden step back. Jack barks a laugh. _

_ “You’re telling no one on the team that I’m scared of ducks,” Ianto threatens. _

_ “Terrified, more like it,” Jack teases, chuckling lightly. When Ianto continues to glare: “Don’t worry, Mr. Jones. I won’t damage your pristine reputation.” _

_ Cautiously, Ianto resumes feeding the ducks. He flicks his wrist to send the corn far across the pond, frowning whenever a duck swims too close. “Watch it,” he warns.  _

_ Jack studies Ianto, this twenty-something man who saves the world, or at least Cardiff, on a weekly basis, cowering from a few sleekly-feathered waterfowl. Yesterday, he rewired an Alaskian bomb entirely by himself, but last week, he’d also called Gwen to ask how to book a dentist appointment. _

_ (“What do you mean you don’t have a dentist?” Ianto’d protested. Jack’d shrugged and brought up his usual excuse of “fifty-first century genetics.”) _

_ Last night, Ianto asked Jack if there were Ewoks in space, and Jack laughed himself silly while Ianto pouted at him. _

_ Jack adores Ianto Jones, even if he’ll never tell him. _

In one lifetime, Captain Jack Harkness loves every single one he drew like this, no matter how much pain or sorrow they caused him. His parents and Gray. The Doctor and Rose. John. Estelle. Martha and Mickey. Toshiko, Owen, and Gwen. And of course, one Ianto Jones. They have all imprinted themselves on his heart, and he cannot bear the thought of forgetting any of them, not when he’s already carried them so far into the future.

In another lifetime, Captain Jack Harkness, going by a different name for this period, moves to an idyllic seaside cottage on a planet similar to the Boeshane Peninsula. He wakes up every morning to the water lapping gently at the beach and sleeps by the bright moonlight, under the stars. 

Just as he carries the ones he loved, he carries an easel and a canvas and paint to the rock cropping that overlooks the beach, and he paints.

Except he doesn’t paint the sea.

He paints his mother, smiling as she was in the wedding holograms his parents showed him and Gray, but also crumpled and broken and sobbing over her lost son. He paints his father and Gray playing cricket on the beach. He paints Gray standing over his grave in angry red strokes. 

The Doctor and Rose climb the frozen waves of Woman Wept. In a burst of golden energy, the Doctor loses his leather coat and becomes the wild-haired gangly fellow or the bright-haired woman with a Northern brogue reminiscent of the version Jack first met. Martha is there sometimes, as is Mickey and even Donna or Jackie.

Estelle dances along the pier with Jack as she had that one night in 1941. Her elder self serves Jack tea and then pets a purring Moses as she settles back in her comfortable armchair. He paints what he imagines she was like in the years he lost, the years he couldn’t be with her for. 

John is painted draped in silk sheets like a Roman emperor but also sometimes in nothing at all. He lifts his sword triumphantly, a nasty bruise on his cheek, a scar running across the bridge of his nose, a Judoon knocked unconscious at his feet. He slings back a drink at a bar but also towers over Jack on a rooftop.

There’s Gwen, wide-eyed and bewildered on her first day at Torchwood. Gwen cradling Anwen to her chest before she shoots a rocket launcher at a helicopter. Gwen, her hair whipping behind her on a windy rooftop, shouting at Jack.

Tosh cowers in a dark, damp prison. Her dark eyes gleam with bright joy as she outhacks an alien ship and sends them back into orbit. She sits by Jack in his office and drinks whisky with him while he tells her about meeting the Doctor.

Owen fumes as he stands over Jack, his back to the grave that holds the woman he was to wed. He works quickly and diligently while stitching up a patient’s wound and holds a baby Weevil, beaming with a sort of grandfatherly pride. 

And then there’s Ianto. There are so many paintings and portraits of Ianto. An entire wall in Jack’s cottage is devoted to Ianto. So many scenes that it’s hard to pick just a few to describe.

When decades have passed, when Jack’s life in his seaside cottage is over, he packs up his few belongings and holds a funeral pyre on the beach, burning all his paintings and his sketchbook as bodies were burned back on Boeshane. 

On the next planet he travels to, he purchases a new sketchbook and begins to draw again. 

**Author's Note:**

> Find me on tumblr [here](http://princess-of-the-worlds.tumblr.com/) or on Twitter [here](https://twitter.com/rajkumarinik). I tweet and reblog mostly Torchwood with occasionally amusing commentary on nonsense. Please come talk to me and tell me if/how much you like my fic or like ask me about it on tumblr; all my schoolwork has become remote now, and I have limited social interaction.
> 
> You can reblog the post for this fic [here](https://princess-of-the-worlds.tumblr.com/post/639024136281358336/title-a-pencil-full-of-memories-sketches-of-a).


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